


No Matter How Old

by crumpetz



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Foster Family, Anxiety Attacks, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-03 00:50:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15807963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crumpetz/pseuds/crumpetz
Summary: "It was hard to explain in any normal terms when things were good and okay, but when they got really, really bad like this, when none of the thoughts quite came together, there was this indisputable fact from who even knew where deep in his brain that Shiro would make it better."Keith gets sick in the night and tries to deal with it himself, even though dealing with it himself is pretty horrible.





	No Matter How Old

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pinstripedJackalope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinstripedJackalope/gifts).
  * Inspired by [One More Hot Chocolate Vigil](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11984793) by [pinstripedJackalope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinstripedJackalope/pseuds/pinstripedJackalope). 



> This is for pinstripedJackalope, whose birthday is this week! It’s based on their fic, One More Hot Chocolate Vigil, which is one of my favorite fics ever. If you’re a fan of found family and really good hurt/comfort, I highly recommend. It’s just. It’s so good. All their fics are just so good. 
> 
> (On that note, I don’t think there’s a lot in the ways of spoilers for OMHCV in this, but there is some hinting. I tried to keep it vague-ish. Anyway, you’ve been warned.)
> 
> Timeline: set, like, a few years after OMHCV. Maybe some of them end up moving out by that point, but whatever. In this fic, everyone is home for the summer or something.

Keith stared at the ceiling.

There was some light coming through his curtains. For a good while, his mind was convinced that meant it was morning and he was awake right now because he was supposed to be.

His eyes shifted to the clock by his bed.

That took a minute to sink in.

2:48. AM.

Which meant it definitely _wasn’t_ daylight yet. The light outside was from street lamps and neighbors’ porch lights and maybe the moon. Keith had only slept for a couple hours.

Someone had probably made a noise or something, then. It wasn’t like that never happened. There were a lot of people living under Shiro’s roof, and insomniacs made up the majority. Seriously. As far as Keith could tell, Hunk was maybe the only one with what could be considered a “normal” sleep schedule, and even _he_ was usually up a few nights a month anxiety-baking.

Well, whatever. Now Keith was awake and he kind of had to pee.

He shifted under the covers with a groan. His body felt so heavy.

Maybe if he just gave it a second, he could fall back asleep. He didn’t have to pee that bad, and he was probably tired enough. If he just closed his eyes and didn’t think…

Keith swallowed. He was so tired, he actually felt kind of dizzy.

He blinked his eyes back open. Okay, no, he was definitely dizzy. And his heart was racing.

Fuck. Anxiety?

It’d been a while since he’d had an attack. Even longer since it’d been bad enough to just…wake him up like this. He’d barely realized.

Okay. Okay, no, this was fine. He could deal with this.

First. Charcoal pills in his drawer.

He clicked on his bedside lamp. He’d need to sit. The movement would make his heart race worse, but it’d pass, and he always felt better sitting up during this mess. He took a steadying breath and held it for four counts before letting it out through his mouth. Okay. Okay.

He propped his pillow against the headboard and sat back against it. Sweat chilled his skin and his lips went numb, so he laid there and he counted out his breaths some more. He could feel every rapid beat of his heart in his arms and ribs.

God, this was a bad one.

Keith swallowed and reached one hand sideways to open the top drawer of his bedside table. He felt for the pill bottle, finding it wedged under some papers, and dumped two black capsules into his palm. Activated charcoal. Shiro had started picking bottles up at the grocery store a couple of years ago after Coran read about them in some out-there alternative medicine journal and imparted the knowledge. And, surprise, they worked. Originally, the aim had been for Keith to use them if he ever (when he ever) “accidentally” ingested dairy. The charcoal pills minimized the bad reaction. Keith eventually figured out on his own that they were good for just generally keeping him from vomiting, though. Like during an anxiety attack.

He swallowed the capsules with what was left of the glass of water by his bedside. They went down slow. He could feel them working their way through his esophagus and, Jesus, he wished he’d filled his glass up to the top before bed. Maybe he could make it to the bathroom and just drink straight from the tap. He really did have to pee, anyway.

His heart pounded just thinking about getting up. Keith’s stomach did a flip. His mouth filled with saliva.

He clenched his fingers in his comforter, inhaling sharply through his nose. Not tonight. God, not tonight.

Second was always, ‘distract yourself.’ Keith grabbed his phone off the side-table and went straight for saved webcomics. Those were usually straightforward enough to refocus on. One look tonight, though, and it was immediately too bright and too much words, and, _fuck_ , he felt really sick.

Mm, this was bad.

_Third was call Shiro._

Keith’s thumb froze a fraction above his phone screen, not even making it to contacts.

He wanted him.

Holy shit, he wanted Shiro here with him right now. It was hard to explain in any normal terms when things were good and okay, but when they got really, really bad like this, when none of the thoughts quite came together, there was this indisputable fact from who even knew where deep in his brain that Shiro would make it better. He could actually imagine Shiro’s voice and the way his hand felt on his shoulder and it was enough for Keith to feel a ghost of comfort just thinking about it. Whatever was happening, whatever was going to happen from this point forward, Shiro’s presence alone would make it substantially less terrifying. It reminded Keith a little of the way he’d heard some kids talk about wanting their moms.

Except Keith was technically a grown adult now, not ‘some kid,’ so there was that.

And he couldn’t call Shiro.

He set his phone down beside him on the covers, tightening his hand over it.

It wasn’t anything dumb, like pride. It wasn’t the whole ‘too old for this’ thing. When you felt this bad, Keith was pretty sure being an adult didn’t matter anymore. If things had been different, he would’ve called Shiro in a second. Any other time and he would’ve already been able to hear Shiro’s footsteps coming down the hall toward his room. But it just so happened that tonight was different from most nights in that regard. Because last week had been a bad one for Shiro. The tail end of a flare up. The first one in a really long while. And Keith honestly didn’t think he _could_ call Shiro right now. The idea of waking him up at two in the actual morning, just _thinking_ about how tired he’d be, Keith honestly felt like he might cry.

His hands shook. God, he was actually sweating through his clothes now.

He really, really had to pee.

Keith wasn’t really sure at this point if an anxiety attack was actually going to happen, or if he’d just be spending the whole night fighting through the rise of one, but regardless, he was pretty sure that needing the bathroom was actually making everything worse. So, slowly, carefully, taking deep, timed breaths, Keith swung his feet out of bed and stood up on the carpeted floor. He stumbled along, palming the dresser and his doorway and the walls. It was a short walk to the bathroom, but by the end of it, he was begging himself to make it. His whole upper body felt numb. Everything was spinning. He managed to make it to the toilet _and_ close the door. Wow.

Things got blurry and detached for a sec. He used the toilet fine and he washed his hands with soap, but the smell of the suds hit him and he felt so dizzy so suddenly, his stomach bottomed right out. He sank to his knees, but he pushed forward and rinsed the suds the last bits away, pressing his forehead into the sink’s edge. Jeez, that was cold. That was so cold. Good cold. But he was definitely, probably going to throw up. Oh, fuck.

Keith leaned against the cabinetry under the sink, dragging the hand towel down with him right off the hook. He dried his hands messily, hugging the towel to his chest. It was like his blood was being replaced by adrenaline. That was the only thing passing through his heart right now. He probably needed to crawl back to the toilet to puke, but he wasn’t sure he could move. The dizziness was starting to hurt.

Inhale to four. Hold for four. Exhale for four.

Keith’s stomach _churned_.

Oh, shit.

A weird stabbing pain ran through his guts. Keith’s legs were starting to shake. And that wasn’t…

No, that wasn’t anxiety.

Nausea on its own was anxiety.

Nausea with _pain_ was sickness.

Keith was sick.

His mind reverberated with the thought, the word.

_Sick._

He pressed his knuckle to his upper lip. Oh, fuck.

He was really, really sick.

Or, well, he was about to be. A strangled sound came out of his throat. Kind of a gasp. Kind of a whimper.

The thing about Keith and sickness was, he really, really didn’t like it.

Really.

Beyond the normal not liking it. Beyond the normal amount of fear and aversion. As in, he’d literally rather be close to vomiting for any other reason right now. Irrationally. ANY. OTHER. REASON.

A knock on the door made him start so hard he nearly lost it right then and there.

“Keith?” Shiro’s voice.

Keith felt another whimper-gasp escape his throat.

“Keith,” Shiro said, more urgent. “Bud. You okay?”

Oh, God. Shiro sounded so tired.

Keith swallowed. He swallowed again. He could hear the door handle jiggle. Fuck, he hadn’t bothered to lock it.

“‘M sick,” Keith grit out past his fingers. “Don’ come in.”

The door had opened before he’d even gotten the words all the way out.

Keith really shouldn’t have been surprised.

“No,” Keith said, shrinking against the sink cabinet. “Shiro, wait. You’ll get it.”

Shiro was kneeling in front of him, eyes sunken in with exhaustion, but his gaze was focused, hyper-alert with worry. He brushed his flesh hand up under Keith’s bangs to press his palm to Keith’s forehead. Shiro shook his head, frowning.

“You don’t have a fever,” Shiro said. “It won’t hurt me.”

Which was absolute bullshit, of course, because if there had been a fever, Shiro definitely would’ve just exposed himself checking for it.

Keith was a little preoccupied to voice that out loud, though.

“Okay, okay,” Shiro said, his hand resting lightly on Keith’s arm. “Let’s get to the toilet.”

Keith’s breath shook. “C-can’t.”

“Kiddo, it’s right there-“

Keith shuddered, moaning.

“Right.” A rush of movement, and suddenly the contents of the bathroom mini trash can had been dumped across the tile floor and the now empty receptacle was being shoved under Keith’s face. “Okay…”

Keith vomited.

His stomach muscles clenched hard. Held so tense he couldn’t get a breath between squeazing up _more_. Acid burned his throat and sinuses, mouth tasting like rot as vomit splashed the bottom of the plastic can. His stomach cramped so violently, Keith choked out a sob. Choked out because he still _couldn’t breathe_.

“Breathe, Keith,” Shiro said unhelpfully.

But then he had his hand between Keith’s shoulder blades, applying pressure, and that _was_ helpful. Keith burped and a _lot_ came up. And breathing was easier after that. Keith was shaking all over. The trash can was sloshing in his hands.

“There we go,” Shiro was saying. “You’re all right.”

Keith let out a real sob this time, spitting into the trash. Shiro’s hand rubbed up and down between his shoulders.

Here’s the thing about Keith and being sick. Something he was pretty sure Shiro had caught onto early, but Keith never actually voiced to anyone. Be it a cold or a fever or a bug, something worse, something trivial, for Keith, the realization of being sick never failed to be worse than the actually being sick. And hell if he had any clue why that was. Something in his head was just messed up about it.

Maybe it was the time his dad left him home alone with a stomach virus when he was seven; for a _weekend_. Or maybe it was the fact that one of the first families he was placed with when he got put in the system had the social worker take him back in the middle of a hundred and three fever so they wouldn’t have to hassle with it spreading to the other kids. It wasn’t news that those kinds of things stuck with you. It didn’t really matter, in the end. Knowing where it was from didn’t make the fear go away. The fear was stuck, right there in his chest, strung tight. And it wouldn’t go away until it was ready to go away.

Shiro had an arm around Keith’s back. His other hand wiped at Keith’s mouth and chin with a damp cloth.

“You’re okay, buddy.” Shiro’s words were soft and repetitive. “Shh. You’re okay.”

“Don’ wanna get you sick,” Keith whimpered.

“Shh. It’s okay. You won’t.”

Which, all right, no. Shiro definitely couldn’t guarantee that. Actually, Shiro was on meds that _suppressed_ his immune system, so, if anything, there was probably a good chance he _would_ get this. But, to be fair, if that’s what was going to happen, there probably wasn’t any avoiding it at this point. God, Keith had probably been contagious all day leading up to this. Thank fuck there was no fever. Keith didn’t think he could handle giving Shiro a fever right now.

Fresh pain rippled through Keith’s insides. He groaned, shivering.

“Again?” Shiro asked gently.

Keith nodded, biting back a sob. Fuck. Fuck.

Shiro rubbed Keith’s back as he choked and fought to bring anything up. After a while of nothing, Shiro tried putting pressure between Keith’s shoulders again. It didn’t work like last time. Keith burped on air before descending into more dry retching. He felt like a sputtering car, trying to get its engine going.

“Okay,” Shiro said, going back to rubbing little circles. “Okay. I think you’re done. Try to take a breath, bud.”

God, this was awful. Keith couldn’t fucking _breathe_. And Shiro would probably be sick just like this by sometime tomorrow.

But, _fuck it_ , Keith was so _unspeakably_ glad Shiro was here. He was glad Shiro had woke up and found him and refused to leave him, even though Shiro really needed to be sleeping right now. And that probably made Keith a really shitty person, but the whole room was spinning and his stomach was one tight knot of pain and, for the life of him, he couldn’t make himself stop dry heaving, and it was all so damn scary, he couldn’t keep caring. He clenched his hand into the front of Shiro’s t-shirt. God, he was just so glad he was here.

“Oh, buddy,” Shiro said. Voice unsteady, raw.

Several more heavy gags, and Keith’s insides finally decided to unclench. It was a sporadic descent back to equilibrium. Desperate gulps of air interrupted by random aborted dry heaves that just turned into this pathetic choking noise. Keith let himself sink into Shiro’s side as soon as things tapered, utterly wrung out and done with all of this. Shiro curled his arm around Keith, steady and safe and familiar. Keith was only really half aware as Shiro tugged the trashcan from his fingers and set it to the side. Keith’s whole body was in tremors, but it wasn’t nearly the level of shaking it’d been before. Thank fuck.

Cool prosthetic fingers drew the sticky hair out of Keith’s face and smudged away the tear tracks and sweat beneath his eyes. Keith found himself leaning into the touch.

The room had gone all but silent. Keith was still panting a little, catching his breath, and there was the hum of the air conditioner. Shiro sniffled quietly.

Keith blinked up at him, bleary eyed. He was pretty sure he’d gone bloodshot from puking so hard. Staring ached.

“You’re crying,” Keith said. It came out really weak and pitiful.

Shiro bit his lip for a second, stifling _something_. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “It’s hard seeing you guys in pain.”

And Keith guessed he’d known that. That this sort of thing was hard for Shiro, too, but in a different way. A way Keith couldn’t quite understand, but one he knew was real. He leaned his face into Shiro’s shoulder, never letting go of his hold on his shirt. It was probably going to be a long night. Bugs didn’t usually end after the first wave.

“You can go back to bed,” Keith mumbled.

“I’d rather stay here,” Shiro said immediately.

Keith was too tired to argue. He didn’t _want_ to.

Everything was so still. Shiro just sat there, up against the sink cabinets, holding him without restraining him, the way he knew Keith prefered. And Keith was twenty-one years old, probably should’ve been past this on some people’s mental scale, but sitting there, listening to Shiro sniffle quietly while Keith hid his own slow tears in the fabric of Shiro’s shirt, he couldn’t see any relevance to that argument. Couldn’t see that there’d ever be a point he’d grow out of needing this. No matter how old he got. No matter how much he matured and healed. This would never stop being safe and good and wanted.

And it occurred to him it was probably the same for Shiro, in his own way. Maybe that should’ve been obvious.

Because if Keith sometimes wanted Shiro the way some kids wanted their moms, maybe Shiro would always worry and come running like some parents did with their children. It was kind of a strange thought to have, worded out like that, but Keith was very tired. He didn’t have the energy to take it apart and figure it out. It felt right, though. Life was a big, ever-morphing blob of complicated shit he couldn’t control at all, but this place, his family, it would always be right.

There had been times in his life when that fact had terrified him, because Keith was the certain kind of fucked up that didn’t always know how to handle good things, but if there was one thing Shiro was, it was patient. And Keith always seemed to come around eventually.

“I’m gonna fall asleep,” Keith mumbled into Shiro’s shoulder.

“Go ahead,” Shiro said, resting a hand in Keith's hair. “I’ll be right here.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, funny story. This actually sort of happened to me? Except the charcoal pills worked, so I never ended up puking, but, like, for three straight days I was just walking around with a stomach bug, saying crap like, "Wow, my anxiety sure is bad right now? It's almost like I'm sick??" Didn't figure it out until I was basically over it. To this day I live with the fear that I infected countless other people without realizing it :)
> 
> Anyway, happy birthday, friend. I hope you have an amazing week!


End file.
